Invisible Ink Spring 2020 by St. Andrew's Episcopal School

Invisible Ink 1

Invisible Ink Spring 2020

St. Andrewâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Episcopal School 5901 Southwest Parkway Austin, Texas 78735

e are proud to present you with this document of student imagination, circa April 2020. Most of these pieces were written when we were still meeting in classrooms, at a time when the days felt relatively predictable. But considered with hindsight, it’s possible to see students discovering their resources and polishing capacities that would serve them well in quarantine. And a central resource, enacted in these pages, is the liberating joy of a well-developed imagination.

We live in a time of unlimited streaming and bottomless scrollbars, when more content is produced on a given day than any of us could consume in our lifetime. And yet we quickly tire of passively absorbing the imaginations of others. We want to free ourselves from the strange but by now familiar position of being disempowered by our conveniences. A strained and restless feeling develops. We also want to create. We also want to work our wispy possibilities into form. It is, of course, hard to imagine well. It asks us to sustain our attention. To settle and listen and observe and then to trust what emerges. Daydreaming, Sean Goodlett reminds us, is not just “a superpower.” It’s also “a skill.” Here in these pages you will see St. Andrew’s students developing this skill—imagining an elaborate conservatory and a mythic forest; untrustworthy strangers and diabolical raptor-bunnies; noticing how a snow cone can weep and the click of a ballpoint pen sounds clean. Often their gaze is directed at the natural world, but not for any pastoral reassurance. The wildness of non-human life becomes a site for transformation—where, as Sawyer Chandler writes, “the cracks in the rock follow no rules.” Consider how the feel of the world transfigures when seen with cathedrals of coral, graveyards of bluebonnets, the moon as an untentacled jellyfish. And so with our world upside down, our hearts bound to each other, and our future uncertain, we have some time to practice imagination. Please enjoy what you find here. But then please consider: what worlds will you be inspired to see and shape with the time that you are given?

-Mr. & Mrs. Ortman

nvisible Ink is the literary and arts magazine of St. Andrew’s Episcopal School; it is edited and produced by the Creative Writing class. All Upper School students are invited to submit work in consideration for publication. Special thanks to Dr. Todd Stephenson, the English Department, and the Fine Arts Department for their support.

Editors

Ryan Bendetti Sawyer Chandler Elana Chhikara Finn Dickens Cam Guttell Jordan Kappler Mackenzie Kruger Sidney Marsh Fabiana Martinez Grayson McKinnerney Allison Rauch Savanna Scott Rachel Owens Krystal Valadez Jacob Zivin

Front Cover

Sam Rauch “Conservatory”

Back Cover

Jackson Averill “Cranes Over Woods”

Faculty Advisors Grace Ortman Adam Ortman

Table of Contents Ryan Bendetti All Those Who Live Kenna Smith Untitled Untitled Charlie Welland

2 56

Birds Chirping, Mother Caring

Allison Rauch The Blue Pinstriped Pillow Book Things You Pay For Sawyer Chandler A Parallel of the Moon Jordan Kappler Cecelia Sullivan Has A Thing About Floors Drought Season

4 59 6

Jackson Averill Sainte Foy Cheetah at Night Kintsugi

8 70 10 37 46

Sam Rauch Why Does the Easter Bunny Carry Eggs? 11 1575 W Durango Avenue 32 Antiquities, Etc. 42 Jackalope 52 Market Price 69 Sidney Marsh

Elana Chhikara

Airlifted

Cecile McWilliams

Navigating the Deep End: The Lifeguard Approach to Parenting

Grayson McKinnerney I Hear It Goes By Quick The Forest

26 38

Night

Isabel Horne

Krystal Valadez

Childhood

Finn Dickens Goats & Piano Notes The Ritual Savanna Scott

33 50

Lucy

Mackenzie Kruger Day Moon Social Distancing

41 65

Marshall Allen Harrell IV Last Night I Had The Strangest Dream

Cooper Payne Mia Tom

44 45

Cam Guttell

The Thoughts Book Underneath

48 57

Emma Schmidt

25 Pounds of Tomatoes

Fabiana Martinez

Love Letters to Rome

The Daydreamer

Isabella Castro

A Labeled Hourglass

Rachel Owens

Three Questions

Jacob Zivin

Ben

Sean Goodlett

Some Notes on our Contributors & Editors Coda: The Room and Beauty

Ryan Bendetti

All Those Who Live

I dreamed that the grass would never be mowed again. That humans

would stay in their dens, and the emptied homes they no longer inhabited could be taken back. I dreamed the nursery would grow into a forest, and that the plants would stop being pruned. I dreamed that dog beds would grow tall grass, and that sinks would run like water down a mountain. I dreamed the apartment buildingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s windows would all shatter, and the birds would be let in. I dreamed that humanity would be humbled after so long. I dreamed that the forest was the only safety, and that they would claim territory not for a nation, not for a population, but for a family, like a fox might. I dreamed that the world never went back to normal, and that they were kept down like we had been for so long. You still do not know what it is like to be hunted. You still do not know what it is to find your home cut down to build anotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. At least now you should know what it is to be afraid for your home. To be afraid for a way of life. Paint your faces, all those who live, and turn to the woods.

Kenna Smith

Untitled

Charlie Welland

Birds Chirping, Mother Caring

As our shoes scraped across the asphalt on the bike path, the sun

rose, rays of light bursting through the leaves surrounding the path and warming our hearts. We could hear the birds chirping, but could not see them. My mother, Isabel, was wearing frayed blue jeans, a white turtleneck, covered by a purple wool jacket, and a pair of rough New Balances from the early 2000s. The birds would sing to her as we continued to walk. My mother loved to watch birds. Although this particular summer morning was my maiden bird watching trip, for my mother it was one of many. The leaves rustled in the wind. My mother, careful not to frighten the birds, informed me in a soft, yet energetic voice, “There’s a blue jay thirty feet from us.” As she handed me the binoculars and leaned over my shoulder to help me view the bird, I could feel her wool coat brushing against my back, warming me from the brisk, New England air. She explained the identification patterns of this particular blue jay as I admired the wings of the animal through the binoculars. We continued down the path, stopping at various points while she listened to my thoughts and dreams. The sun began to glow against her thin, brown hair, occasionally causing a gray strand to shimmer. The path changed to dirt and my mother’s shoes glided two inches above the ground as she strolled home. She mounted the stairway to the house. Her footsteps on the clay stairs were as gentle as falling feathers. As she opened and held the screen door, she rubbed her warm hand on my back. The journey was complete and we were home.

Allison Rauch The Blue Pinstriped Pillow Book Things that look nice stained Glasses smudged with fingerprints. Dried coffee rings on tables. Scuffed shoes. Lipstick on the rim of a wine glass. Gray pencil-sheen on the curl of your left hand after writing. Things that look awful stained Ink on your left hand after writing. Food coloring on the surface of a hard-boiled egg whose shell has been dyed. Clean things The click of a ballpoint pen. Curling ribbon. Ice skates. Paper shopping bags. Spirals on notebooks. Ceramics. Leaves of plants. The sound a vinyl sticker makes when its backing is peeled away. Cinnamon rolls. Movie protagonists. Things that are pretty from far away Impressionist paintings. Strangers on street corners that you drive past. Plants in the windows of very tall apartment buildings. Ice. Cars on an overpass. Stage makeup. Things that are alarming from far away People wearing flesh-colored clothing. Dogs play-fighting.

Thrilling things Driving very early in the morning. Spontaneous plans. Cracking the top of creme brulee with a spoon. Catching something that is thrown to you. Jumping into a swimming pool. The feeling of feeling desired. The feeling of letting go.

Sawyer Chandler A Parallel of the Moon A song of solitude drips from the crescent moon and bleeds into the fish belly sky. The blue fades into a silver-wrapped building. Glares from the sun trickle down the side of the theater and are met with a stone wall. The cracks in the rock follow no rules. They are met with the Trojan blades of grass. Tangled, in a frozen battlefield. The turning of pages and rustling of leaves are in harmony as the wind sweeps words away. Where a moon sits in the blue sky, a boy sits in the green sea. Legs crossed and tangled hair, he looks to the ground. His arched back; lunar. My favorite night sky. Drawn by frost-bitten fingers, his eyes observe spiderwebs reflecting like shooting stars, sliding with my perspective. 6

Above the clouds roam free and travel at a slow and steady pace. Their shepherd, the sun. With a cold nose and hound at my feet, I dream of this again. â&#x20AC;&#x201D;Reminiscing

Jordan Kappler

Cecelia Sullivan Has A Thing About Floors

Cecelia Sullivan was going to be late to work because of the

bagel shop in Hanover square. Emerson’s, it was called. A tiny, packed shop owned by a Jewish couple who were always in an argument. Emerson’s was awful. Cecelia didn’t go there for the bagels or the coffee, which was better than the bagels but still too strong and served in styrofoam cups. It wasn’t the long line that made Cecelia late, or that her order was made wrong twice, or that she spilled her coffee - which was entirely too hot - down her new blouse. No, it was the floor. Cecelia Sullivan had a thing about floors. It was involuntary, a tendency she had no control over, something hardwired in her brain since birth. Her fascination with floors doubled her commute. The floor of Emerson’s was mesmerizing. Cecelia had never seen such an intricate pattern, it was something out of a Victorian film: blue cornflowers on white tile. The pattern spanned across the shop in such a way that Cecelia wanted to sit on the floor coffee-stained blouse and all - and study it. This had been a problem for as long as she could remember, her obsession with floors. Recess as a child was particularly difficult. Teachers had to drag her off the schoolyard when she was too focused on the sidewalk chalk. High school wasn’t any better. The manicured lines of the softball field had her frozen to home plate; they were too perfect to ignore. There was something oddly comforting about the repetition, Cecelia knew that much. It was the repetition that caught her attention. “Do you think it might be the order that’s comforting?” Oh yes, the order of things was so comforting. She felt so protected when thrown headfirst into trouble, like when the tile 8

pattern of the subway station drew her closer and closer to the tracks, and a stranger had to grab the collar of her jacket and pull her back, bewildered. Her therapist Eleanor loved to ask questions like this. To get Cecelia to spill about her taciturn upbringing, no doubt. Her drunk father, her brother who spent more time in jail than out, but no, Cecelia Sullivan was not in the habit of indulging strangers in her personal life. Not to mention that Eleanor wouldn’t understand. Eleanor. She was haughty without even trying to be. With her manicured nails, her perfectly straightened dark hair, and her name. She was probably named after Eleanor Roosevelt, by her well-to-do mother in her well-to-do family. Damn Olivia for recommending her. That was the last time Cecelia took her half-sister at her word. Olivia, who had one glass of wine and ended up confiding in a stranger at a dinner party. She was an emotional drunk, a crier, her mascara always streaming down rosy cheeks. Embarrassing. But that didn’t matter anyhow. Cecelia was here now, in front of the snobby woman held in such high regard by Olivia. Cecelia refused to entertain Eleanor’s theory that she was some kind of OCD case. When did appreciation for patterns become a neurosis? Cecelia simply had a fascination with floors. That wasn’t so strange, was it? Cecelia wanted to tell Eleanor this, but she was too distracted by the Persian rug under her feet. Cream roses on burgundy fabric. Delicious. The rug was nice, no doubt about it, but the tile pattern at Emerson’s was beyond compare. Actually, now that Cecelia thought about it, she should sit down. Just for a moment, not long at all. She sits cross-legged on the floor, her empty coffee cup in her hand, studying the pattern. People are moving around her, angrily shoving past, but Cecelia doesn’t mind. She’s going to follow the pattern to the very end of the shop, and then back. Side to side, and then the perimeter. She’ll stay here all day if she has to. 9

“Ma’am,” a puzzled voice calls, somewhere above her. “Ma’am, you can’t sit on the floor.” Blue cornflowers on white tile. Exquisite.

Jackson Averill Sainte Foy

Sam Rauch

Why Does the Easter Bunny Carry Eggs?

Evolution via horizontal gene transfer, a process by which an

organism evolves new traits by gathering genetic material from its environment and incorporating it into its own genetic code rather than inheriting a trait from its parents, is primarily associated with unicellular organisms such as bacteria. The Easter bunny, however, is not so easily dissuaded. Not since the Incident. Perhaps, by proximity, a trade of genetic material is possible. Perhaps, the power of flight can be accomplished. Every year, the Easter bunny hunts, collecting eggs from only the most powerful predatory birds, and disguising them in a coat of pastel paint. Then, the Easter bunny plants them. After a delightful brunch party involving icebreakers and friendly conversation with the eggs, the eggs have surely bonded with the Easter bunny enough for DNA to have been exchanged, at least in theory. The eggs are planted under the guise of a fun springtime activity for children. The children will bring the cheerfully-colored eggs into their homes, where the hybrid predatory flying rabbit hatchlings will be poised for attack, nourished in their infancy by a ready supply of candy until the call is sent out. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, we are spared year after year only because STEM education in leporid schools is chronically lacking, and most rabbits accordingly don't have a good grasp on basic genetics. Due to widespread information over the internet, however, this could change. It could be next Easter, or the one after that. All we know is that we, for better or for worse, must be ready.

Sidney Marsh

I ’m just a couple months older than my husband. So when I turned

fifty first, I got to hear all the old lady jokes his warm and witty humor could muster. When we walked our dog together, he would stop, pick up a sturdy looking stick, and say “Oh pumpkin, I know your knees must be trembling by now! Might I offer you a cane to aid your ailing body?” When friends would visit for dinner, he would make them stand next to me. He made this big show of stroking his hairless chin and pretending to carefully evaluate the two of us standing back to back. Then - after 10 or 15 seconds for dramatic effect - he would let out a big puff of air through his nose, and wave a pointer finger through the air as if to say “Eureka!” Then he would then inform the confused guests of his discovery with the same old line every time. “Aha! I knew it! Sugar, it's finally happening... You’re shrinking!” But my favorite prank was the one he pulled the morning of my birthday. Every year, he wakes up early to make me breakfast in bed. Knowing I hate waking up early, he sleeps with the phone in his hand and sets the alarm to vibrate so I can sleep undisturbed. I am a pretty heavy sleeper as it is, but he is just so thoughtful that he likes to be extra careful. Can you believe that? Now, he had been warning me that the old-person jokes were coming since my 49th birthday party. The reminders just kept increasing every day leading up to that morning, so I was pretty surprised when he hadn’t made a peep on the matter all through breakfast-in-bed. So surprised, in fact, that I was getting suspicious. So after I finally took my last bite of toast and dusted the crumbs off my lap, I put a finger on his chest and said, “All right now mister, what gives?” My face was scrunched up in a fake accusatory glare. “You talk a big game about the epic burns and leg pulls awaiting this very day, and now here we are and you show up empty handed? I must say that 12

I am disappointed.” Then without saying a word, a mischievous little smile took over his face. “What?” I stammered. Still silent, he slipped his hand into his pocket, pulled out a clicker the size of a flash drive, and pushed his thumb into its sole button. All of the sudden I heard the sound of an ambulance. I nearly jumped out of my skin in shock. He doubled over laughing as he waited for me to discover the alarm was coming from my chest. The little weasel had put a toy ambulance speaker on a nylon cord, put it around my sleeping neck, and inscribed the piece with words “LIFE ALERT” from the 1-800 commercials in big red sharpie lettering. “I’ll kill you!” I said as I tackled him in our bed, the two of us laughing hysterically. Our laughter only increased when our eighteen-yearold son howled from upstairs “WOULD YOU TURN THAT THING OFF?” He’s not a morning person either. So now you see why I had to go big for his 50th birthday. His pranks and banter always outdo mine, so I was having a hard time coming up with something spectacular enough. “So,” he prodded, “did ya’ decide to get little-old-me anything for my big day? Or are you giving up already?” It was still a whole two weeks until his birthday, but he was right in assuming I hadn’t started yet. He always seems to be on to me. “Oh I got something planned all right! And just you wait... It's going to be big! It's going to knock your socks all the way to Canada!” “Hmmm” he paused, “I hope you aren’t lying to me right now. Just imagine what the people would say. The front page of every paper in America with the title:” He slowly waved one hand as he spoke to give me a vivid display of the fake bold letters. “Loving and Caring Husband Left Empty Handed on the Biggest Day of His Life. Wife Nowhere to be Seen.” I put a hand on my hip and raised a single eyebrow. “Yeah I don’t think they make newspaper headlines quite that long.” Still not making eye contact, he replied completely deadpan, “They make exceptions in extreme circumstances.” So that brings me to today. Completely stumped. It was a Sunday afternoon. Just five days before his birthday, and I had Nada. 13

Zilch. Nothing. I knew I would get busy during the week so it was now or never. I walked back and forth in the kitchen, occasionally stopping to dig a scoop of ice cream out of the freezer, and then continuing my deliberation with the spoon lingering in my mouth. Still unable to come up with anything substantial, I decided what I needed was some inspiration. And who better to inspire me than the man of honor himself. After making an executive decision to finish the sorry remains of the ice cream, I went to my office to leaf through past gifts I had received from my husband. This was one of my favorite activities. I had dedicated an entire filing cabinet solely to presents, trinkets, and mementos that reminded me of our fondest memories. The first thing I grabbed was a wine glass with the bottom snapped off. Instantly I was brought back to the dinner party where the glassware mutilation took place. A couple of newlyweds had just moved in across the street and were hosting a dinner to get to know the rest of the neighbors. My husband had grabbed the invitation out of the mailbox and wanted to read it aloud to me. I suggested he fetch his reading glasses, but he refused. “Oh honey, relax. My eyesight is not that bad.” He was quickly interrupted by our son’s cackle. “What’s so funny, eh?” my husband said in mock disapproval. “Umm...Dad, your eyesight is awful. Remember the time you ran into a bird feeder and got a black eye?” My husband thought about this for a moment and then an idea popped into his head. “Look, you don’t believe me?” He then walked to the refrigerator, rummaged around for a second or two, and triumphantly pulled out a carrot. “There!” He then proceeded to read the letter while chomping away on his carrot, whose eyesightbenefitting nutrients had apparently turned to a magic cure-all. However, amid his cheeky display of 20/20 vision, he seemed to have skimmed right over the fine print detailing that the dinner would be semi-formal. So, we both showed up in jeans, expecting some kind of a grill out. We were sadly mistaken when crossed the threshold and discovered ourselves surrounded with at least a dozen immaculately dressed and polished neighbors. As we made our way 14

to the kitchen, me with my now pathetic looking container of potato salad, we were greeted by the hostess. “Hi there!” she said in a high pitched voice as she looked at our outfits instead of making eye contact. “Hello! So good to meet you!” I stammered as I instinctively twirled my hair with one hand and held my potato offering in the other. “I am so sorry, we seem to have not gotten the memo about the dress code.” I shifted my gaze directly to my husband—who was conveniently looking anywhere else. “I have no idea how that happened.” The perky hostess quickly responded with, “Oh sweetie don’t even worry about it! You look…” She paused as she searched for the right words. "...so comfortable!” Then she ran her hands down a clearly pricy cocktail dress and added, “I am so jealous!” It seemed like our attire was everyone’s ice breaker of choice. Some comments were funny but most were just down right catty. I finally lost my cool when one tall and slender woman with the legs of a supermodel—dressed to the nines of course—said to me, “I would think a short little thing like you would jump at the chance to put on some stilettos! It must be quite a chore for a husband of his stature to bend all the way down there for a kiss.” My husband, expertly reading the room, quickly read a fake text on his phone, exclaimed loudly, “Oh my God! So sorry! You must excuse us,” and whisked me out of the room. My wine almost sloshed out of its glass. He walked me to the back yard and sat me down on a bench. “OH I just can't BELIEVE some of these people!” I let out. “It's a neighborhood dinner party! Not a five course meal with the president.” I threw back the remaining contents of my glass. “I know,” he responded in a soothing tone. “Why does it even matter? We made a mistake! So what? Half those women looked like they could barely walk in their heels anyway!” I ranted as I made him trade my empty wine glass for his full one. “I mean, I’m not that short anyway. Am I a Swedish model with legs for miles? No!" “You know I love all 5 foot 3 of you. Tall is overrated. Being a tall person, I can tell you that finding pants is absolute hell... You know what?” He then got that ridiculous smile on his face. He took my previously emptied glass, grabbed it by its top and hit the glass leg 15

against our bench, breaking its lower half clean off. “Much better. A more sensible height.” Since I was left speechless by his destruction of a relative stranger’s property, he took my hand and said, “I guess we are outlaws in this house now. We better skedaddle.” We then walked straight out of the house before dinner could even start, ruptured glass in hand. There were dozens of other little keepsakes all with stories behind them in that filing cabinet. A cheap, aggressively orange teddy bear. A perfectly smooth stone from Lake Erie. A page of an English to Spanish dictionary hastily torn out. After taking in all of the memories, I noticed what seemed to be a book bound in faded leather resting against the back of the filing cabinet. When I pulled it out, its origin story immediately reignited in my mind. This was the one token my husband didn’t know I had. This was from when we were just kids dating. All those years ago. This was from the day he introduced me to his parents. I was crawling out of my skin with nerves. I had only met one other boyfriend's parents and it went horribly. I don’t want to get into it. But I’ll say it involved marinara sauce, a skeevy uncle, and mace. So I didn’t have good luck with meeting the parents, but I really liked this guy, so I meticulously prepared myself for anything that could go awry. I had stuffed my purse with makeup remover, sunblock (even though we would be indoors and it would be nighttime), a note card of potential topics of conversation, and a stupid amount of tampons. I was shocked, however, to find out that, unlike the last family I was introduced to, this one was not only normal, but welcoming. My future parents-in-law were full of life and laughter. They both embraced me simultaneously at the door, an act so unexspected my jitters melted away. They knew just how to make me feel at home. They took my coat and pushed some appetizers to my side of the kitchen counter while the chicken pot pie in the oven was filling the room with a delicious aroma. After thirty minutes of easy conversation, my then-boyfriend’s mother asked to talk to me privately in the living room. This was the first time since entering the house that the butterflies in my stomach started acting up. I was preparing myself for a protective mama 16

bear shake-down. Instead she told me, “Now, I know you know my son well, but I want you to know all of him. Every part of his past because I can tell he really likes you. So... family album time!” I laughed with relief because she had unintentionally been hinting that her son has a past life as a drug dealer or highschool dropout or some other scandalous thing. That’s when she pulled out that faded leather album. Sitting side by side, we took our time watching him grow up. “Haha! Look here!” she said while pointing to a photo of a scrawny looking teenager with swim trunks, a bowl haircut, and teeth that needed growing into. He was sitting on a tall, white, wooden chair with a red umbrella overhead and a leafy looking background behind. A dopey smile overtook his face. “That was his first job. He was the youngest lifeguard at the pool. Some of the older lifeguards teased him for being underweight, but he didn’t care. He was so excited to be earning money. He thought the tan he would get would score him some points with the girls at school. Ah, the poor kid didn’t get a girlfriend until senior year when puberty finally decided to do its thing.” I smiled back at her and reassured her sentiment. “Oh it did its thing real well if you ask me.” I playfully added a wink. The next photograph she stopped to admire was much crisper and more focused. This was a photo of a man rather than a boy. He was wearing khaki shorts and a charcoal Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt that fit closely to his strong chest, leaning against the hood of a red Saturn. He was looking to the side at some unknown object. His brown hair was being tossed around by a breeze, covering one of his eyes. The other eye was shaded by a furrowed brow, but you could still see how remarkable blue it was. His jaw was tight, as though he was in deep thought. “This was taken the summer after his senior year. He and his best friend took a road trip from Virginia all the way to the LA beach. It took them about three weeks because they stopped at every bar possible. They never once booked a hotel room. They just made friends with fellow bar flies and got free room and board shacking up 17

with the locals. As you can imagine they kept that particular detail a secret from me.” She paused to chuckle to herself. “No one is a stranger to my boy.” The photos ended halfway into the book. I could tell she was about to say something as we reached that last page, but I cut her off. “Wait,” I said. I put my fingertip on a photo. “I know the story behind this one.” It was a photo from graduate school. He had gone to the Student Life Center begging for a job. They told him there weren’t any positions left, but he was relentless. He wouldn’t let up about students taking initiative and molding young boys into men before facing the real world. Eventually the supervisor told him that there was one thing he could do. It was technically someone else's job but they had been shirking their duties so it was about time the person was let go. He was thrilled to hear there was an opportunity, but the excitement didn’t last long. In his mind it was probably the least sexy job on the planet, but it was money and beer didn’t buy itself. So he took it. The next day he showed up for his role as Guardian of Student Life Essentials. As you might be able to guess he came up with the name. In reality he was the guy that stood in front of the supply closet and for an hour a day and made sure no student took more toilet paper than they were supposed to. Not sexy. What was even more not sexy is that the person that had been fired from the job was me. Whoever had captured the photo of the stunned 6 foot 2 man being told off by a 5 foot 3 chick in front of a wall of toilet paper must have been laughing pretty hard because the photo was a little blurry. “What? That’s you?” his mother exclaimed. My back had been turned to the camera, so all you could see of me was a sea of dirty blonde hair and a finger pointed at the person who had snaked my job out from under me. “Oh I was furious!” I recounted as I shared the story of how we first met each other. “Look at his face! The kid had no idea what he was in for. I was having a bad day and when I saw some fratty looking guy in front of my toilet paper… 18

Well, let’s say he didn’t stand a chance.” I laughed to myself, “He felt so bad he asked someone where I lived. The next day he showed up at my dorm with an apology bagel he bought at a store across the street. I guess the rest is history.” I paused for a moment. “I’m surprised he hasn’t told you about that picture yet.” “Well,” his mother said sheepishly. “That's because he doesn’t know it exists. Actually, he doesn’t know about any of these pictures. He’s never seen this album before.” “Really? How come?” I implored. She shifted in her seat, clearly getting ready to tell the story. “When he was a kid, I took lots of pictures of him. I just loved being able to document him growing up. But when he started leaving the house more to see his friends, I realized that I wouldn’t be there to see so much of his life.” She paused as she gave me that same mischievous look I’m so familiar with. “Sooo...” she started back up. “I asked all his friends to secretly send me pictures of him, especially if he didn’t know the photo was being taken. I’ve done this from grade school up until the present date. That’s why I wanted to show you this book in private.” Her face suddenly changed from a jovial smile to that of a business woman cutting a deal. “Now that he is out in the real world, halfway across the country from me, I am no longer the best person to keep up the record. I want you to continue my work and finish the book.” She shifted in her seat again, indicating that she was finished. I was taken aback. She clearly knew that me and her son were very serious at that point, but to be asked to take on this responsibility, a project that she had been working on for almost two decades, was an honor beyond belief. I was shocked that she trusted me—someone she hardly knew. “Wow” I stammered. “I’m speechless. I can’t believe you would trust me with something like this.” She smiled and laid a hand on my knee, almost like my own mother. “I may have only just met you, but in this short time I have spent with you tonight, you have exceeded the raves of my son.” Then she cupped her hand over her mouth and whispered as if revealing sensitive information. “Who is clearly head over heels for 19

you by the way.” Then her voice returned to normal and she looked directly into my eyes. “Only you can finish his story.” He proposed to me the very next night. The intense wave of emotion overtook me as I flipped through those same photos again. Since that day, I had kept the album a secret from him. I continued his mother’s work all throughout our engagement and marriage, asking friends and family to send me photos of him caught unawares. This was it, I thought to myself. I had found my idea. Five days later I shook my husband awake. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY OLD MAN!” I yelled as I jumped around the bed in my pajamas. I clearly didn’t have the same respect for his beauty sleep as he did for mine. He groaned with a smile on his face and whined, “Who let this noisy little thing into my room? I am fifty years old for god sake! You think I might have earned a little more respect by now.” I smiled in return, “Aw stop your grumbing and get you saggy butt out of bed! I made you some prune juice for your big day!” When he got out of bed I ran behind him and pushed him out into the kitchen. If he wasn’t awake before he certainly was now. His “prune juice” was actually an omelette, grapefruit, scones, pancakes, cinnamon rolls, coffee, toast, and bacon. I knew it was more than he could eat, but I made the same spread every year. Every year he says back to me: “Aww there she goes again, trying to fatten me up! I have high cholesterol ya know!" And every year he does his best to scarf down as much food as possible before our son wakes up and eats the rest of his birthday breakfast. However, this year was our son’s first year away at college. I knew he missed our boy a lot, and I could tell he was thinking about it halfway through the meal. This was something I had been worried about, so I took precautions the night before. In my old lady voice, I scolded his half eaten meal saying, “Is that the best you can do!? Pathetic. I'll show how it’s done! Shove over!” I made him scoot and proceeded to inhale more food than I thought was possible. I had made 20

sure not to eat dinner the night before just for this moment. This made him laugh, indicating the morning was back on track. “So now is the moment of truth!” he declared as soon as the last morsel was consumed. “Will the title of my New York Times read: Loving and Caring Husband Left Empty Handed on the Biggest Day of His Life. Wife Nowhere to be Seen.” He used the same dramatic hand gestures he had two weeks prior. “Oh, just you wait to see what I have in store for you!” I said before slinking off to retrieve my gift. As I walked back into the bedroom to the gift’s hiding spot, I was a little nervous. Nervous for no real reason, but still. We usually got each other something funny. Something that reminded us of a good laugh or poking fun at something embarrassing the other did. This gift wasn’t a joke. I held the wrapped album behind my back and walked back into the room. I placed it on the table. Impersonating a ridiculous voice as he always does, he declared, “Now what do we have here?” I smiled and softly said, “Just open it.” He looked at me again, held the wrapped present to his ear and shook it in an attempt to guess its contents. Then he finally put it down and unwrapped it. “What’s this?” he said over his shoulder to me. I just shrugged and motioned for him to open it. When he opened the album to the first page, his dopey smile fell from his face. He slowly and quietly flipped through years of his life. Taking his time to examine every captured image of himself. Every so often he would pause and lightly touch one of the pictures, as if the physical contact took him back in time. He would smile to himself, then continue. After taking in every photo in the leather book’s possession, he closed it and turned to speak to me. Before he got the chance, I put my hand down on the book and cut him off. “This is a book of you.” I started off. “It’s filled with photos taken of you since the day you were born until now. It was started by your mother. For years she would ask all of your friends to secretly photograph you in important moments of your life. The night before our engagement she gave me the responsibility of finishing it. Which I have. But now that we have successfully raised a young 21

adult together, your life is not just you anymore. It's him.” I then slowly revealed a second book I had hidden behind my back, this one unwrapped with a sky blue cover. I laid it on the table in front of him and opened it to the first page which held a single photo of our son on the day of his birth. Our baby boy’s face was pink with exhaustion. His head was completely bald and his face was all scrunched up to indicate that it was time to stop flashing the camera right at him. He was surrounded by a light blue yarn blanket I knitted during the last few weeks of my pregnancy. Knitting that thing was one of my many feeble attempts to take my mind off of just how terrified I was to be responsible for another life. The edges of the photo were worse for wear as the photo had been touched and admired year after year. “I have gotten so much joy in learning about you through these photos. Then I found joy in collecting and taking them myself. I want to give you that same joy. I want you to discover your son just as your mother and I discovered you. Talk to friends and family members. Look through pictures you have taken yourself. Piece together our son’s life so that you can carry him with you in this album wherever you go. And finally, when he finds the love of his life, you give her this book and set him free.” When I finished my speech, I let out a long, slow breath. I waited for him to say something, anything, but he didn’t. He stood up, rubbed his red and puffy eyes, and wrapped his 6 foot 2 body around my little 5 foot 3 frame. I smile from within his embrace. “Feel old yet?”

Elana Chhikara Airlifted Savor every moment that you are gifted; You never know when your last day will be. Look through your memories until they are fully sifted. Know that one day your burdens will be lifted. It is not that hard to see. Savor every moment that you are gifted. It may sometimes feel like the memories have drifted, But please listen to my plea. Look through your memories until they are fully sifted. Your position in life may have been shifted, This has definitely happened to me. Savor every moment that you are gifted. Your thoughts on this have been airlifted. You have finally set yourself free. Look through your memories until they are fully sifted. And just when your memories have been unsifted, You remember who you are and find the key. Savor every moment that you are gifted. Look through your memories until they are fully sifted.

Cecile McWilliams

Navigating the Deep End: The Lifeguard Approach to Parenting

My parents have taken a liberal approach to raising my brother

and me. My dad compares his role as a parent to a lifeguard. We are free to try our hand at backflips, cannonballs, and belly flops, but if we ever need a break, the poolside is there for refuge. As a result of this liberty, there have been instances in which my brother and I have broken bones, gotten lost, stepped barefoot on bees, or been stuck in awkward conversations with neighbors we don’t know. The freedom to get ourselves into these sticky situations (and get ourselves out, for that matter) has been integral in developing an independent sense of judgement. Nothing too catastrophic has happened (yet), and I have learned to trust my gut, so I doubt anything ever will. I am often surprised by how much stricter other parents are. Growing up, my neighborhood friend and I would spend entire afternoons at the nearby park and creek, building fairy houses and playing silly roles, until the sun went down and the mosquitoes came out, at which point it was time to part ways. These excursions, to me, were as ordinary as lunch. That is, until my neighbor would ask me to keep the adventure a secret—“tell your mom to tell my mom we were in your front yard,” she would say. I realize now that this “helicopter” parenting style was not too unusual, but the attitude has certainly accelerated. This shift is especially obvious when I ask my parents about their upbringing. My mom explains that her after school routine was as follows: snack, hop on bike, run into neighborhood kids, probably engage in a wrestling match. I actually remember my own childhood similarly. I spent a lot of time outside, often barefoot, leaves adorning my ponytail. But I was lucky enough to be a young kid just before the internet’s complete hijack of daily life. Sure, everyone had a phone, and it was common to see people combining their daily exercise with business calls via earbuds. Now, however, I see kids in strollers, eyes 24

enamored with an iPad, which is dinging and pinging for the whole park’s enjoyment. Easy access to the internet begs parents to reassess their allowance of freedom. I take my stand for the freedom to play; being outside, among bugs and poison ivy and trees, is undeniably supportive of creativity and independence. Modern technology is a whole different world--it poses many more hazards than the neighborhood park. An environment in which anyone can become famous, make money, and have access to billions by means of a few mindless clicks, is immeasurably menacing to a young, impressionable brain. Not only does the internet take “stranger danger” to bounds unheard of, but it is also a depressingly speedy way to kill an imagination. Without a screen as my default escape from boredom, I learned how to entertain myself. Dry leaves, sticks, and maybe some glue was sufficient to keep me occupied for hours, and it was empowering to be so self-sufficient. I have my parents and their hands-off approach to thank for this skill. I am grateful that during my early childhood years, it was not yet a common parenting technique to plop a screen in a child’s restless hands. Technology is like a delicious sweet: although it might be a quick fix for a sobbing four-year-old, it is ultimately harmful to well-being. Modern parents are burdened with a difficult task: They must find a balance between encouraging kids to play and explore, while carefully monitoring access to the intimidating world online. They are, after all, raising our future inventors, scientists, and politicians. No pressure.

Grayson McKinnerney

I Hear It Goes By Quick

"So um…” “Uh huh?” “Yeah…” “...” “Well…” “Is something wrong?” “Not particularly.” “Okay.” “I mean…” “David, just talk.” “I’m not sure about this.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.” “You don’t have to worry.” “Ya know me, Mr. Worry over here.” “It’s also okay to be scared. It’s a big deal.” “I’m excited. I’m just not sure.” “We don’t have to do it.” 26

“No! No, I want to.” “Oh, okay, thank God.” “Yeah, I’m not backing out.” “It’s just I’ve been wanting this for years and we already spent so much money…” “I’m still all in! I’m just... very nervous.” “Honestly, me too.” “I mean… what if we screw up?” “We have some time to get our shit together.” “Yeah, but it’ll be time before you know it.” “I’ve heard it feels super long.” “Anna and Gen said it felt quick.” “I know, but they did it themselves. It takes longer when you’re on the sidelines.” “I think it’ll go quick.” “It probably will.” “...” “....” “.....” “She’s very nice.” “Super nice.” “So smart.” “The kindest.” 27

“Great face.” “I mean she looks like me so…” “Yeah, that was kind of the point.” “Do you think they’ll look like her?” “At least a bit.” “I hope they…” “They’ll look like you.” “You think?” “I know, I mean, it’s genetics.” “Yeah.” “Mark.” “Mhm?” “I’m glad we’re doing this.” “Me too.” “I’m glad I’m doing this with you.” “I love you.” “I love you, too... Our lives will change so much.” “It’ll still be you and me, just with someone new to love.” “I can’t wait to meet them.” “Well, it’ll take about nine months.” “I heard it goes quick.”

Isabel Horne Night The sky is filled with so many stars That I wish for an eternal night To sit on the roof of my car Stare at tiny bright lights And the smell of hay fills the air Like honey sweet perfume And I would just like to sit there Never going to move And no it isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t in the slightest cold There is a thick soft heat But the safe night warmth never gets old Safe from my head to my feet Yet soon enough the sun will rise Its rays will beat down At least when the day arrives I can wait for night to come around

Krystal Valadez Childhood Eating the sweet cold ice cream our parents gave us when we behaved. eating the yucky vegetables we swore we hated the most. eating pizza from pizza parties our elementary teachers threw for us.

listening to the ice cream trucks drive through our neighborhoods. listening to the â&#x20AC;&#x153;Ay Ay Captainâ&#x20AC;? in the introduction song of Spongebob every Saturday morning. listening to our parents nag us for not making the bed or putting away our toys.

touching the dirt from the playground that we used as pretend food. touching the play-doh as we believed we created the next new invention. touching every object at the store even though our parents told us not to.

smelling the fresh pack of crayons we would open for our coloring books. smelling the cool new scented erasers we begged our moms to buy from the book fair. smelling the chlorine from the pool water that we would splash through all summer.

seeing our classmates run around the playground during recess. seeing the forced friendly grins on neighbors faces as we yell â&#x20AC;&#x153;trick or treat!â&#x20AC;? in our costumes. seeing our houses as we drive away for college, or whichever next step that lies in our paths.

Sam Rauch

1575 W Durango Avenue 32

Finn Dickens Goats & Piano Notes The piano ain’t got no wrong notes! I play it every day. I have 100,000 goats. My goats will only eat oats Prepared in a disgusting way. The piano ain’t got no wrong notes! That’s one of my favorite Monk quotes. He had a lot to say. I have 100,000 goats So I bought 100,000 coats But they started to decay. The piano ain’t got no wrong notes! Cuz dissonance ain’t got no antidotes And jazz is here to stay. I have 100,000 goats, They’re always at each other’s throats But it’s love at the end of the day. The piano ain’t got no wrong notes! I have 100,000 goats.

Savanna Scott

Lucy

met Lucy at a bar on Acres Street on the hottest night in July in Portland. I noticed her sitting on the corner of the stage and assumed she was a part of the band, which she wasn’t. Her pursed lips held a marlboro red that was stained with black lipstick. Only once did I see her lay fingers on the cigarette to pretend she was smoking; it wasn’t lit. Her hair was fine and auburn, teased into a top knot with one silver piece dangling in front of her right eye. Her legs were crossed with black leather pants clinging to her chunky thighs. She wore a thin tan top that looked similar to a bandage. Her round face rested in her left hand, smushing her cheek to her eye. She wasn't a beautiful woman, but the blaring red lights that lit the small dark room made her seem it. I tried to approach her but ran into the corner of a table where a group of men with overgrown beards and beer bellies sat; thankfully they were too drunk to notice. It was late and I had already had three shots of cheap whiskey so I decided to head home. It started to rain that disgusting muggy hot rain that it does so frequently in the summer, so I stood under a green awning and called a cab. While calling the cab, I felt something brush up against my back pocket but didn’t really think anything of it until I checked for my wallet and realized it wasn’t there. Being a very observant man, I saw Lucy out of the corner of my eye walk into the pharmacy next door, probably to get another pack of smokes that she would pretend to use. I followed her inside. When the bell on the door rang she whipped her head around and looked me dead in the eyes, then began to run towards the back, knocking over a stack of kit-kats. She locked herself in a co-ed bathroom whose door looked like someone had spent time picking off the white paint. From the look in her eyes when we’d made contact I could tell that I wasn’t getting my wallet back, but I still sat outside the door of the bathroom for 45 minutes until the old Indian man running the pharmacy said we had to go 34

because he was closing out. Lucy opened the door to the bathroom and handed me my worn out snakeskin wallet. I looked inside and it was empty, she had taken all my money. And to my surprise, it wasn’t a pack of smokes but rather a baggy of joints clutched in her right hand. I shouldn’t have been surprised, she looked like the type of girl to buy pot from a sketchy man who works behind the counter before pot was legal. I wasn’t even mad that she robbed me, in fact I was glad she did because it gave me a reason to stay by her side as she exited to the wet sidewalk. She didn’t smile, she doesn’t smile, even now. She grabbed my forearm and pulled me outside, her hands leaving a red mark on my arm. She plopped down on the pavement and took out a white lighter from in between her breasts. White lighters are bad luck. When her joint finally turned to ash and a stub, I asked her where she was from and she said Kansas; she said she hated Kansas and as soon as she turned 18 she moved to Halfway to live on a dude ranch with an old man who pays her for making cinnamon coffee and skinny dipping in a duck pond. She wanted to be a horseback rider, but became a sugar baby instead. I could sense she wasn't the type of woman to tolerate small talk, so I asked her about her childhood. Her parents were Mormons, but her dad was “sent away” from the community because he was having an affair with the chicken farmer. She formed a frown and wrinkled her eyebrows when she said the words “I loved him.” He used to sneak her to the movies and he watched her pierce her nose with a thread needle, which made him cry. He taught her how to pickpocket and how to throw a punch. Her face hardened and flushed like she was going to throw up when I said “What about your mother?” Soon after that she got up and mentioned something about going to get a whiskey and coke, but she never came back to where we sat by the crack in the sidewalk on Acres. It made me sad, and that’s when I decided I hated her, but also loved her. * * * It wasn’t until twelve years later that I saw Lucy again. I was in Tokyo at the live seafood market hovering over the crabs stacked on top of each other in a small tank. It was again late at night and 35

the neon lights of the city lit up the faces of the old Japanese men sitting on straw chairs in front of lobsters and tilapia. The market was still crowded and everyone seemed a little bit out of place, like we all had taken a sip out of the same cup of Hennessy. I saw Lucy behind the tank of prawns smoking a cig (she was actually smoking it this time) and playing a deck of cards with an elderly white man. I don’t know how I didn’t notice them sooner, they stood out. Lucy’s hair was all chopped off and bleached and she looked thin, but her round face had stayed the same. She looked less distant and more approachable than the last time I’d seen her. I walked across the market and went up to their little stand where Chinese lanterns were strung from one end to the other. She ashed the cig into a porcelain tray and looked up at me. She asked me how many shrimp I wanted to buy. I looked her in the eye and then it hit her. I knew she could feel it too by the expression on her face. We stared at each other for a minute and then she offered me a cig which she had just pulled from between her breasts. The old man next to her formed a crooked smile that looked crusty yet genuine. “How the hell did you find me?” I began to laugh and I laughed so hard that I started to choke. I wasn’t surprised that she recognized me as I looked pretty much the same, just with a grown-out beard. She pulled out a wooden stool from under the table and placed her hand on it, inviting me to take a seat. I denied it and reached for her bony fingers instead, and she took my hand. We walked a couple blocks past the night clubs and sake bars and ended up at the ship port. We sat on a wooden dock framed with little fisherman boats and red buoys. The moon reflected off the water and illuminated the right side of her face, making her look like an angel rejected from heaven. She looked beautiful in the same way she did the night in the bar with the red lights. She slipped off her silk dress and jumped into the oil blotched water, creating a delicate splash.

Jackson Averill

Cheetah at Night

Grayson McKinnerney

The Forest

His stomach burns with hunger. The white innards of the pine

tree he ate earlier are settling down with the few berries he found the day before. Breath whistles out of his nose, tired and desolate. It’s been two nights in the reportedly haunted forest. Not that Korric particularly cares whether this place is haunted or not, but so far everything has seemed typical of a forest. Not that he’d really know. If anything, the creature currently haunting this place is Korric himself. As he pauses to rub the tiredness out of his eyes, a blade swings out from between the trees. The blade is so sharp and gets so close to Korric’s neck that a coil of his dark hair flits down to the ground, sliced straight through. “Oh,” his voice is scratchy with disuse. He can hardly come up with actual words to say. He feels the blade shift slightly after his vocalization, closer to the meat of his throat. “Why are you trespassing?” Korric blinks, and speaks before he thinks, “Honestly, I didn’t even know I was trespassing.” The other person scoffs, “Why are you here, Halfling?” Their words rest in the air. Korric can’t even begin to reflect on the moments before his terrified flight. He frankly doesn’t want to. “I… I cannot go home,” Korric utters, numb. “I have nowhere to go.” The blade rests for just a second more on his throat before swinging back into a sheath. Korric gazes up at the Half-Elf whose blade was curled under his chin. Now that they have relaxed, he glances across the angular features. Their face is, in a word, stoic. Their hair is shaved on the sides, 38

accentuating their long, slashed ears, and the rest of their dark hair is tightly braided down their back. They are tall and thin, a good two feet taller than Korric, and they hold themself straight up, not leaning for Korric’s convenience. All the while the Half-Elf has been gathering their kills, which they had discarded in a rush to apprehend the trespasser. “Ymir,” a gravelly voice slips into the air. “My name is Ymir. I’m a hunter of the Arunosi Clan.” Korric steps back and sets his clothes back in order after the altercation. “Thanks for not killing me.” Ymir breathes out a laugh, “It would have been a waste.” “Ah, why thank you.” Minutes later as Korric and Ymir crest through a dense cluster of trees, they make their way into a clearing sparsely populated with trees and not so sparsely populated with people. Korric has never seen this many people before, and he has certainly not seen this many different types of people. All around the clearing humanoids of all shapes and sizes, Elves, Dwarves, and Gnomes alike. “I’ll bring you to Movanna,” Ymir rests their hand at the back of Korric’s shoulder. Their hand is warm and ever so lightly grazes his vest. Korric nods watching a pair pass by. An Elvish woman with the face of a warm hug holds a fat Half-Orc toddler, so young his tusks have not yet grown in. Other families dot the camp, children running like dogs in a backyard. While vaguely annoying to hear all the shrieking, it's nice to see children so free and happy. Ymir comes to an abrupt halt in front of a large dome stretched with leathers. A strong but not unpleasant herbal scent wafts from the curtained entrance. “Wait for me here,” they nod before ducking in. Korric nods somewhat sarcastically, because, honestly what else is he going to do? After a few moments, Korric begins scanning the clearing again and is surprised to see eyes on him. A few people are poised 39

cats raising their haunches. Others are dogs with their ears poised and head turned to the side. He feels strange under so many eyes. “Nimblefingers,” the now-familiar graveled tone wafts from the hut. At once, Korric turns from the eyes and brushes the curtain to the side to enter. An old Goliath woman with dark grey skin and faded black tattoos. Her eyes are hawks’ eyes and her mouth is a shut door. “You are a coward,” she does not blink. The declaration has been made. Korric’s stomach drops unexpectedly. He had not been consciously hoping for anything, but maybe somewhere deep down he hoped— “Or perhaps,” she lays a flag down. “Not quite. Instead, a fugitive of fate. Sometimes the only choice is to run, just as the only choice is to stand.” Korric shakes his head, “I have no idea what you’re saying.” Ymir inches closer to Korric on the ground. With their legs crossed, somehow they look young. “She is inviting you to stay,” the Half-Elf utters. Fazed so much he is unfazed, Korric looks her dead in the eye, “Why didn’t you lead with that?” Her wrinkled skin curls in a smile, with a breath flitting from her nose, “I may have just liked to see you squirm little one. I do not like those who are too big for their britches.”

Mackenzie Kruger Day Moon A brown bench, I am summoned skyward. A cluster of tree branches forms the shape of a spotlight around the crescent moon. The moon faded and tired, its attention stolen away by the sun and the blue sky. Dull and sad, a jellyfish without tentacles, an arrow without a line, facing a direction without the means to get to its destination. The angel’s wings without the angel, the wings of Lucifer left behind. Half-covered and half-exposed. Half is concealed, its outlines still visible. One half sheltered from the truth; the other corrupted by the harshness of it. A friendship broken; the silhouette of its remnants still distinguishable, the unity no longer accessible. Clouds begin to gently swim toward the moon. Their wisps and strands of hair cover its face like a mother’s hand covering her child’s eyes, shielding its impressionable mind from taint and contagion. The clouds are thicker and the moon dimmer. Doesn’t know where it begins or where it needs to end. The moon becomes more and more lost, more confused, like a young child who has lost their mother in the frozen section of the grocery store. I leave and the moon is completely covered by clouds. Just as it was in sight, it was gone. Were I at the same spot on that bench only ten minutes later, sorrow unseen. 41

Sam Rauch

Antiquities, Etc. 42

Marshall Allen Harrell IV Last Night I Had The Strangest Dream As the boat hit the shore I gasped in delight. I had been waiting for days and many nights â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Cause I knew in this place there was fun and joy But when I arrived, something didn't feel right. When I got off the boat there were girls and some boys. I looked around and saw rides, games, and great toys. So many families under the hot sun, Packed in a small space like the horse in Troy. As the short days went by I had so much fun, With my feet on the hot sand I loved to run, But as I would run I would realize weird things And as things got weirder, I wanted to be done. Then one day all the bells started to ring. It felt like the island was hanging from a string. People went missing and the birds didn't sing. All were scared as peasants before a great king. I woke up sweating, my mom was beside me. The scary thing in my dream, what could it be?

Cooper Payne Mia When you’re walking away someone should remember you. That faint familiar sound rings away unto the ground. When I hear your name I feel lost and not found. Can’t sleep at night because I know you should be there too. I’m spending all my days and nights thinking about you. When you’re walking away someone should remember you. Running through the halls finally without your cone. Standing with that man who sleeps alone. I’m saying I love you like you love your bones, and I’ll never stop as long as you’re gone. When you’re walking away someone should remember you. When you’re walking away I will remember you.

Tom When you’re walking away someone should remember you. There are few people in this world that I love. Your words hit me like I'm just a dove. It’s driving me crazy to forget my time with you. But I must move on, because you know it's through. When you’re walking away someone should remember you. I never thought I would have to go. There were so many more places, high and low. We never even got to run around in the snow Will you remember me as you move on too. When you’re walking away someone should remember you. When you’re walking away I will remember you.

Jackson Averill Kintsugi

Cam Guttell The Thoughts Book Things that thrive more after death A sand dollar sold for $15 in a Florida gift shop at the airport. Edger Allan Poeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s writings. Things that thrive more before death Domesticated animals. Human beings. Nature. Things that make you hot-headed Little kids that were never taught simple manners. Blatant disrespect to a waiter or waitress. Littering. Babies that cry on airplanes, and their parents doing nothing about it. Bad drivers on the highway during rush hour. Teenagers, doing what they do best. Humans. Useless objects we use every day Forks, knives, and spoons, all doing actions we can do with our hands, and adding a task to clean them. Wearing shoes on a hot day. Things that create the appearance of deep emotion Someone who is crying, but with an ugly face. Walking off the court after losing a match. Congratulating the competition after they won something you worked for. The sound of someoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s voice trembling while they are presenting to an audience. Things with more than one purpose Trees. Bowls from the kitchen. Rocks. Plastic water bottles.

Emma Schmidt

25 Pounds of Tomatoes

The weekend starts with a trip to the store. The recipe requires

about three 28oz cans of whole Italian tomatoes. We must also get garlic, basil, tomato paste, onions, and bay leaves. My dad walks up and down the aisles looking for the exact right ingredients. He’s made this recipe so many times that he almost has the list memorized. The first time he made the recipe was before I was born; my mother’s grandmother had the perfect recipe for marinara sauce that she brought when she moved from Italy to America. My mom taught my dad how to make the sauce for our everyday pasta needs. As soon as we get home, he gets to work. He’s chopping garlic; he’s opening cans upon cans of tomatoes; he’s measuring seasonings. He starts to boil the tomatoes in a pot over a foot tall like a witch watching over her steaming cauldron. He adds basil and oregano until it starts to taste more like a sauce rather than a soup. I can hear the low rumbling of the marinara simmering and the tomatoes softening. After hours of this, it’s time for the most laborious part of the ordeal: the food mill. We’ve had our food mill for many years, but it still works like a charm, metal grating against metal. It takes hours for us to process through the 25 pounds of sauce. We take turns adding spoonfuls to the mill and cranking out the perfect texture: smooth with small chunks of tomato. He sits down in front of his favorite show Manifest and turns the mill as he watches Josh Dallas investigate flight 828. I can smell the garlic mixed with bay leaves and tomatoes. I listen to the rhythm of my dad turning the blade over the softened tomatoes. He spins the blade over and over, creating the steady, lulling noises I’m so used to hearing. He stops every few minutes to spoon the sauce into the food mill, taking extra care to not spill the precious mixture. At last, we’ve milled the last of the sauce, and we get out the containers to freeze it. These 25 pounds of sauce will last us about another two months. My dad grew up eating unhealthy, frozen meals, but he makes sure I have a homecooked meal every night. 49

Finn Dickens The Ritual Eyes, hands, footsteps. A woodsy neighborhood, a neighborly woodsy hood, a hooded neighbor wood. The rockpath, dirtpath, grasspath, earthway, then Shattered-glass-ridden ornaments, and The circle. The chair-logged log-legged circle, with open-legged invitation for dirty clothes and mud-caked shoes and sticky-licky-sticker burrs that prick at the skin. The tree-guides guide the free-minds with the vein-fingers of their branch-hands. The chant begins Flowers and weeds, stems and seeds Sliced Chopped The humble-bumble-bee is buzzing, Fleeing, From the flame pollen and burnt bits of earth flesh Invading the atmosphere Then, Buffering, Lagging, Leaking, As if under a spell, Surroundedâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;

Fabiana Martinez Love Letters to Rome Dear Rome, Did you see? It's pouring rain outside. Not a cloud in the sky, Heavenly light beaming through the water. Dear Rome, The ruins still linger In the parks And if I close my eyes I am in a different world. Dear Rome, Did you hear? Rumors tickling my ear: Apparently, There is a world beyond the keyhole. Dear Rome, Your beautiful streets, Small and thin, Like veins coursing through the city, Usually filled with people, Alone at 3 am.

Sam Rauch Jackalope

Sean Goodlett The Daydreamer On a regular school day, Everything is normal. Go to class, have lunch, and be with friends. Go home, eat, and then go to sleep. Sleep, what a great word. The art of stillness and quiet. But what if you could do that During the day. Dream about a place where you are the King of the sea, king of the desert, King of everything, You could bring things to life: Dream of Dream of Dream of Dream of

your favorite car the house you want money love.

Daydreaming is a skill, a weapon Being a Daydreamer is like having a Superpower But just like any dream It must end.

Isabella Castro A Labeled Hourglass

The hourglass in the back of mind drops a grain of sand every time I see you Against the glass they go Clink. Clink. My field of vision was blocked by the lenses of a pair of rosy glasses, so, I guess I never realized it was there. I’ve encountered hourglasses before. A year ago, one of mine was plastered with the label “When?” Written in white wispy letters, the question wound up to be more of a warning. When will I meet them? When will they be mine? When will we begin? When will we end. At the beginning, the grains would fall sporadically, like drops of rain at the beginning of a storm. Before I knew it, the tempest began. I don’t want the hourglass to rain. The grains belong in the top half. I just want to shatter that bottle and shove them back up through its spine. I want to look at the gleaming shards. I want to look at the scattered grains. You always said that when you’re with me, you feel like you’re dreaming. You know? I want to ignore the clinking and just live. But at the same time

I want to listen to the clinking forever I want to ask you if you can hear it too I want to display the hourglass and watch its eternal flow of sand I want to hold each grain close to my heart and remember the songs moments and memories attached to every one I want emptiness. I want nothingness. But I want that hourglass.

Kenna Smith

Untitled

Cam Guttell

Underneath

The moment the O-ring makes a small popping noise and air

starts flowing into the regulator, the fish brace for our entrance. Each SCUBA diver flipping backward into the endless vibrantly shaded waves gets involved in a new world only some people get to see. The surrounding jolly rancher blue is absurdly beautiful; it engulfs you with an appreciation for the Bahamas and what Island School gives you the opportunity to do. You hold your mask and weight belt, lean backward with your regulator in your mouth, and start your adventure with the world you never knew you would love. The cold water hitting your face and the small splashes from your classmates wake you up and get you ready for the dive. You start to explore your dive site, The Cathedral. Alex takes you around the reef and brings you to a dark narrow tunnel. You investigate the small opening full of fish and their homes. As you invade their space, you look up to the roof noticing your abiotic bubbles fly up, and to your surprise, they are getting stuck sitting flat on the ceiling of the coral. The fish start to look at you as a foreign organism that shouldn’t be underwater with them. You feel like a fish as you are swimming around, but the heavy weight belt, BCD, and tank are a constant reminder that you don’t have gills. Alex takes you over the diversely colored coral that you had just been inside, and you see your bubbles come through the top. Seeing the image of the coral seemingly breathing out air brings out the relationships that exist between humans and nature. There is so much more than just exploring their world for fun, you are there to learn and create a positive relationship with an unknown world. Following behind your instructor for the entirety of the dive opens your eyes to her comfort underwater. You follow her fins moving back and forth, creating bubbles that hit your face. Her ability to cautiously move in and out of the tunnels of coral makes you feel just as comfortable underwater. Alex’s confidence and fish-like 57

movements prove to you there is a deeper connection between humans and the ocean. As you start to mimic her movements, you see fish take a sigh of relief. We have to respect ocean life because it is not our permanent home, and Alex shows by quiet exploration how this can be fulfilled. As you ascend and make your 15-foot, 3-minute safety stop, you pass above the reef you had just been inside. You look around to see fish intermingling with each other and several parrotfish gnawing at the coral. The fish flap their pectoral fins goodbye. At that moment everything becomes natural. You no longer focus on yourself; you start to watch what surrounds you, seeing the fish and nature for what they are. You start your final ascent. Your face breaks the surface and the sun hits your face, awakening you from your 30-minute underwater intoxication. You now feel the weight of your BCD and equipment, you feel the rough waves push you around, and you can feel a difference in life on the surface compared to what you just experienced at The Cathedral.

Allison Rauch

Things You Pay For

Magda was in the grade above me. She had thick black hair that

she parted with a plastic comb kept in her pocket, and she always used her parking brake, even when she wasn’t parked on a hill. Back in October I didn’t know any of this. In fact, before her senior year Magda and I had managed to pass through not only the same high school but the same middle school without ever interacting: parallel beings. We had even been in two classes together: seventh-grade prealgebra and eleventh-grade pre-calculus, and hadn’t spoken. Magda sat in the front of the class and took small notes in blue pen. I sat by the window and scrawled my notes on yellow legal pads. They’d moved me up a year in math. No, the first time we ever—as far as I have been able to trace back—spoke, was at a football game; this was in October. Magda was in marching band: she played the flute with quiet precision and kept her place in line, stopping right on cue. We were playing Richmond, they were good but were known for coming on too strong in the first and second quarters, fizzling out a little after halftime. Our team was only alright, but we had a phenomenal kicker, Colin Zingg, who had a great name and who, when he dropped you off, always waited until you were inside your house before he drove away. Colin Zingg was in love with Magda, which is why he would not go to the locker room during halftime and would instead watch the marching band from the sidelines, sweating profusely. He was there during the Richmond game, keeping an eye out for when they spelled out the school’s initials because when they did, Magda formed the end of the inner curl of the G. Magda was playing her flute and Chrissy and our other friends were under the bleachers, smoking. They had a red thermos that they were passing around as well, filled with something herby and bitter. I was there, too, of course: I was a cheerleader in those days. The previous Tuesday I had gotten into a fight with Diana Antonelli, the head cheerleader, about appropriate ponytail 59

heights, and she had banned me from the Richmond game. So I was there under the bleachers when, a little after halftime, Magda appeared, still wearing her blue and gold band uniform and holding her flute like a talisman. “Hi,” she said, not stepping any closer. The rest of us instinctively clustered to the sides, forming a ring around Magda and Chrissy, who was in charge because she had been in debate in middle school, and her eyeliner was the pointiest. “I was wondering if I could have some of that.” Magda pointed at Chrissy’s joint, glowing in the dusk like an evil eye. “This is mine.” “Oh, well sure,” said Magda. “I need more. It’s for Mr. Hughes.” Mr. Hughes was the permanent substitute sophomore English teacher, taking over for Mrs. Donnally who, rumor had it, was in rehab for a gambling addiction. He was twenty-nine with curly hair. He had a framed page from The Little Prince hanging behind his desk, the page with the boa constrictor eating an elephant that all the adults said looked like a hat. He had graduated from Princeton and—his female students noted—wore no ring on his left hand. “Mr. Hughes asked you for weed?” Magda nodded. “He gave me money to pay for it. He says he needs it for a party he’s having Saturday.” From an inside pocket in her band jacket she pulled a roll of cash, rubber-banded. “Why did Mr. Hughes ask you?” Magda didn’t pause. “He’s in love with me.” She continued talking, Chrissy and the others leaning in like they couldn’t believe their ears. Mr. Hughes, in love with Magda. It made sense, at the time. He seemed dreamy, she seemed dreamy. He brought a book everywhere he went, and she copied her favorite poems into a green Moleskin she kept in the glove compartment of her car. And Magda had been acting as a teacher’s assistant, of sorts, to the sophomore English class since the beginning of the school year. It was because Mr. Hughes was new to the school, and Magda was so advanced in English: her Kerouac paper brought Ms. Wilson, the senior English teacher to tears; it was extraordinary. Or 60

maybe it wasn’t because of any of those things. But Magda herself was extraordinary, as we found out that night as she sat with us under the bleachers, and through the following weeks. She was from Guatemala. She had a rich uncle who sent her designer clothes. He was the one who bought her the ring she always wore on her left pointer finger; it was real gold, studded with tiny rubies. She taught ski classes for children in Chile during the summers. She got a 36 on her ACT. These facts trickled out easily, casually. We treasured each one like precious jewels. Who was this girl that we had never noticed before? She became a fixture at games, parties, in class. Each day we learned just a little about Magda. Just enough to hook us, draw us hopelessly in, and just not enough to leave us wanting more. And that “more,” as we found out many months later, after it was too late for anything to be done to save her reputation or Chrissy’s trust or Colin Zingg’s heart or poor Mr. Hughes’s job and, ultimately, life; was that she was a compulsive liar. She couldn’t help it. Later I went to visit her—I was the only one who would go—and they made me walk through a metal detector and took my shoelaces and necklace before I could go in. She was sitting on a little white twin bed, made up with pale blue pinstripe sheets. I asked her all sorts of questions, like how the food was and if her roommates were nice and when she thought she might be getting out. She said fine, the chef had been on a Food Network competition show a few years back and sure, one of the girls was named Mackenzie and was the daughter of a famous actor—that one—who had been in that big Oscar picture, and that she didn’t know. “You don’t know? Magda tucked a piece of hair back behind her ear. I guess they’d taken her comb. “I don’t, Angie,” she said after thinking for a little bit. “I really couldn’t tell you.” I thought of her under the bleachers at the Richmond game, smoke curling into the noise of the game and the blueness of the night and the thrill of doing something wrong. “Well, we’re all rooting for you back home,” I said, and it was a lie.

Rachel Owens Three Questions [A former protector of the universe, now corrupted, contemplates a past relationship and what could have been.]

What were we, before the fall? A question I’ve asked myself for as long as I can remember. A question we both danced around, even before: what are we? Just friends? No. Teammates? Much, much more than that. Lovers? … No, of course not. A strange middle-ground between all three, I think. A liminal space. Two satellites, orbiting around something bigger. Reaching out to the other every time we get close, fingers just managing to brush — but never able to take hold. I suppose the shared sense of duty got the better of us. And I suppose it was only natural for duty and selflessness to be the things that would tear us apart — after all, when you consider priorities, it makes sense for protecting the cosmos from intergalactic threats to trump the idea of a relationship. 62

Protect the cosmos, we did — or at least tried to do. But what good did that do us? It left me dead. Left you wishing you were, too. We were stars, burning bright only to die so, so young. We were children. … What are we now? Completely different people, for one thing. No longer children. I suppose in a way, we both died that day — though I suppose you were worse off than I, weren’t you? Losing everything you ever loved, losing everything that made you you, yet forced to continue on. Compared to what you faced in the aftermath of it all, death is painless. But I would have taken your place in a heartbeat if it meant granting you peace from all of this. I can understand why you ran. Deep down, past the twisted, corrupted parts of me, I still love you — no matter how angry, how heartbroken I was at you for fleeing. I still love you, and I suppose that’s why I haven’t given up and succumbed to darkness entirely — The thoughts of you keep me anchored in the little bit of starlight I have left. Could we be more? Could we? Is it selfish for me to want that? The strings of fate have pulled us together again, could this be a sign? Could this be a second chance for the both of us, to have what could have been? 63

Or are we too far gone? Is hope inane? It must be, there’s no more room for hope in this world, not for people like me. After all, there’s so much I don’t know. I can’t ever admit it, but I’m scared of the uncertainty of it all. Do you love me like I love you? Even after all this time? Is love something we’re capable of having, after everything that’s happened? I don’t know. I don’t know. But as long as I love you, I will hold onto the light.

Mackenzie Kruger Social Distancing Take away the energy source All weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re left with is a loneliness of force Trials and trials of new and old Beautiful paths begin to unfold Inside the home is where secrets lie But, also, loveâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;one canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t deny You must take hold of this truth Because you will never lose your youth. Make the most of your time Wasting moments leaves a mountain to climb. Waking knowledge is the key to living. Even more important is giving.

Jacob Zivin

Ben

"Ahhhhhh! Screw you Arthur!” I heard Ben yell from across the

room. Ben was bubbling with anger, and I could tell he was about to burst... Ben was one of my closest friends growing up. He was a really violent kid, but for some reason his violence didn't stop me from wanting to be his friend. He was the troublemaker of my class. No one in the class wanted to be his friend. Either they were too scared of him, or just assumed he was a bad person. That wasn't my idea of him though. I guess I always thought he just had some problems but he was a really nice guy deep down. It was mainly his violence that scared people off. Don’t get me wrong, at times I was scared of him, but chose to not judge him for the fuming anger that erupted multiple times a day. I really felt bad for Ben. He was aware of his anger, and aware he had a problem, but when he was angry, there was no way to calm him down. I guess it’s harder for children to control their emotions, especially in second or third grade. We were all just young kids, and Ben was just another kid. Our brains were so moldable, searching for what was right and wrong. We had a lot of freedom in that class, able to roam the room when we wanted and select whatever work provoked sparks in our tiny heads, but vast brains. When outbreaks would occur, it was certain all the children in the room were going to be aware. “Ahhhhhh! Screw you Arthur!” I spotted Ben flying across the classroom like a gorilla moving towards his prey. His speed prompted his long blond hair to blow behind him and his piercing blue eyes were red with tears. He threw himself with zero self control at Arthur, leaving two holes in Arthurs’ body—one in his neck to the left of his spine, and one on his forearm. I watched the now not-sosharp number 2 pencils fall to the floor, and Arthur fall to the ground screaming in pain. 66

Joseph, the man in charge, had a grim look on his face. It was always scary when Joseph got mad. When Joseph was unhappy, I had the instinctual feeling that something was wrong. He first tended to Arthur with bloody, graphite-colored holes in his body. He phoned for assistance, they took Ben out...I didn't see him for weeks. Weeks after the incident, Joseph, our guide, pulled me aside and said that Ben had requested to have lunch with me. Joseph told me that Ben had been placed in the office until they felt it was fit for him to return to the classroom. I remember asking Joseph what happened to Ben, but he would not give me a straight answer. This surprised me; I hadn't seen Ben in weeks and had no clue he was so close by. So I made the walk down the granite path to the office and sat on a wooden swing in the courtyard outside the office where Ben had been spending his time. Ben came out. I was confused about how I was supposed to address him, or how I was supposed to talk to him. Was I supposed to be his friend now? Was he gonna stab me? My classmates seemed to dislike him. Does that mean I should not like him? He had shame in his eyes, I could tell he had been contemplating what had happened for awhile now. Shortly after the awkward first few moments, we got back to chatting, talking, laughing, and it was back to normal. He showed me what he had been doing with himself while he had been at the office. He showed me all the cool rocks he had been finding and basically he was showing me how he was keeping himself sane during this time of isolation from the rest of his classmates. He eventually opened up about what had happened with Arthur, and I could tell he didn't mean to hurt anyone. So why would he do it? I was puzzled. Not yet being of the age to fully comprehend human emotions, I was puzzled why Ben would hurt someone over something so little. Was Arthur instigating Ben? Childhood is such a pivotal time in someone's life and such an innocent time in someone's life, so why was he so angry? I remember going to his house for the first time. I remember feeling nervous and kind of frightened, I was about to be left without my mom at a friendâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s house who I had seen stab someone, run away from school, and many other outbreaks. I was scared to accidentally piss him off. 67

When I went over there, his actions were commanding and aggressive. I could feel his anger in every word he spoke and he even did a few things to scare me. I knew he didn't mean to scare me. I knew he wanted to be my friend and I knew I was an important person to him. He just couldn't help his anger. I still think to this day about why I was so close to him and why no one else was. Although his anger and wild side is what scared people away, that was the thing that attracted me. He was unique and full of passion and ideas. He was always starting new projects like building a raft or a tree house or zooming down his giant hill by his house on scooters. I felt excited when I was with him. It was something different and new, even if it was frightening. Eventually Ben would discuss his anger problem. His mom would talk about it with him, and I began to openly talk about it with him. I wonder why I am writing about him now, and I think the answer is it made me recognize and learn about anger at a really early time in life. I could see its power and its weakness. Discovering its complexities at this age helped me recognize the way people should live. Ben helped me learn when was the right time to be angry and when was not. I learned what anger can lead to if you don't deal with it, and how it can get out of hand in just a second's notice.

Sam Rauch

Market Price

Jordan Kappler Drought Season I've been dodging the pavement, sidestepping gravel. Seeking refuge in the lone patches of wilted grass spared by the August sun.

I consider myself lucky. These days, sidewalks shatter from even the slightest of footsteps and burn unsuspecting feet.

This is a summer of chapped lips, of weeping snow cones that stain the sidewalk chalk a gaudy purple.

The lone survivors of this shipwreck burst through cracked concrete â&#x20AC;&#x201D; wilting tendrils of spring, long gone. A distant reminder of green, of life.

But hope emerges, thunder echoes through the canyon, bursting forth with dark-bellied clouds and golden lightning that strikes the parched earth, sending shockwaves rattling through graveyards of bluebonnets.

I stand barefoot in the garden, my arms outstretched, seeking the antidote, the long-awaited rain.

The sky opens up, a deluge breaking forth and

soaked

Some Notes on Invisible Ink Contributors Jackson Averill has been doing art for years. If he were a tree, he would be a eucalyptus tree. It annoys Jackson when there are seeds in his oranges, because it ruins the great texture. He finds fangs oddly beautiful and admires them on vampires especially. He enjoys the fall because he can sit in his yard and think about the many wishes he would ask for if he had a genie. Jackson loves to spend time with his pets and his little sister, giving this quarantine a silver lining. All who meet Ryan Bendetti are instantly struck by her striking composure and her quick wit. She is a senior at Saint Andrew’s and identifies with the mighty yet humble oak, specifically the Minecraft oak. Her favorite book is The Dresden Files by Jim Butcher. Ryan enjoys autumn best, she relishes rainy weather, and if she could get rid of any word in the English language, it would be grapes. Isabella Castro is enamored by the subtle nuances in simple things —the lighting in a room, the lines in a story, the drowsy speech of a person on the verge of sleep. She walks through life asking what story she will tell today—but if she had to read one, she would definitely reach for Emergency Contact by Mary Choi, and suggests you do the same. If she was getting a portrait done, she would select her amazing grandmother to do it as she is a wonderful artist. And just like the Easter Bunny, Isabella loves to make people happy and spread love. Have you ever seen someone litter? Sawyer Chandler has. And she hates it. We asked if dropping soap on the floor makes the floor clean or soap dirty. Her response was it actually makes the world implode. If you were to rewrite Winnie the Pooh and place Sawyer in the story, she would be the donkey Eyeore. The key to making Sawyer smile is sunshine during rain, Stephen King novels, and tall trees to climb. Next year you can find her roaming the forests of Oregon. 72

Elana Chhikara abhors when people talk with their mouths full. If she were a tree, she would be an Eastern redbud, which are cheery and bright, much like Elana herself. She loves to daydream about the times in her life during which she has been happy, and finds powerful beauty in certain kinds of pens. As a woman of the people, she obviously prefers Steve Buscemi to Nicholas Cage. She will be attending Texas A&M University next year to major in business and becoming queen of the world. Finn Dickens is a short-circuit nuclear reactor in the body of a dumb teenager. Sometimes a very jittery boy (much like his best friend Tigger) Finn must manifest his energy into his creations. When he looks deep within himself, he sees fire, and lights the flames of his soul, expressing his rage on the piano keys. He requested his self-portrait to be done by world-famous artist Pablo Escobar. Finn dreams of one day headlining at Austin City Limits. The nuclear fire from within is what he must evoke in himself to get up on that stage and expose his raw energy. Underneath it all, Finn is truly quite mellow, which is why he belongs with his rooted elders, the Jamaican Trees, in Jamaica. Sean Goodlett is always one to go with the flow, and, as most brilliant writers do, he has learned the lesson, in writing and in life, to find a way to make his mistakes look good. As a happy, positive soul he would most likely be a palm tree; as a painted subject, he would prefer to be a Kandinsky. He finds satisfaction in considering how a movie plot was constructed, and he blames society for making the Easter Bunny carry eggs. Thanks a lot, society. Cam Guttell has awful road rage, taking extreme pleasure in verbally assaulting the bad drivers that assail her commutes. She finds beauty in the clicking of a turn signal, so long as itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s coming from a Jeep. Cammie also enjoys making up fake conversations while daydreaming. She hates radish in her salad! When Cammie walks into a room, she immediately looks up at the lights and says hi to them; she thinks lights are so cute. 73

Marshall Harrell IV knows how to solve a rubix cube, which is classically impressive. This peach tree of a young man dislikes when travelers take up the window and aisle seat so he can’t sit with his family while they are travelling. He hates papaya but he loves December because the days are short and he sleeps better in the cold. And he asks you to consider the bright side of enforced quarantining, which is the side where it doesn’t exist. A bold, intelligent writer, Isabel Horne is driven to explore the question: What is it like to be alive? She gets frustrated when people don't express how they feel, and the first thing she notices when she walks in a room is the energy. She loves country roads on cloudy days, cute little ducklings, and Experience. The Easter Bunny carries eggs, she explains, because the milkman only delivers milk. When asked what tree she identifies with most, Jordan Kappler chose the elegant Japanese maple. She prefers those entering rooms to close the door behind them, as all members of refined society should. When writing, she asks herself why others would be interested in her work and why she herself is writing. She abhors the word “hoodwinked.” When not producing fine pieces of literature, she works as a senior at St. Andrew’s and dreams of dessert. Mackenzie Kruger is an absolute gem and will be living her best life at Chapman University in California next year. In her writing, Mackenzie enjoys exploring themes related to the human mind’s capacity and how we should treat each other. Something that drives Mackenzie insane is when people don’t listen to each other. She has a good point there! Sidney Marsh, nymph-like in beauty and composed in elegance, is annoyed by how difficult it is to spell “Wednesday.” One thing she has learned in Creative Writing is that some ideas need to be slept on, but in her own writing, she is driven by answering the question, “Why are we the way that we are?” She would want Monet to paint her portrait, and if she were a character from Winnie the Pooh, she would be Tigger. Sidney finds traffic lights at night strangely 74

beautiful, and the first thing she notices upon entering a room, like everyone should, is whether or not a dog is present. When asked what kind of tree she would be, Fabiana Martinez responded with a sweet and fitting Maple Tree, followed by a laugh. Fabi loves to make sad things beautiful and vise versa and she thinks it’s a great skill to have. If someone doesn’t have compassion, Fabi does not want to talk with them. As a people person, the first thing she does when she enters a room is notice the people. She would choose herself to draw her portrait if she had to, and constantly daydreams about new passions. Fabi’s zest and experiences drive her work and she shines with her big and loving personality. Grayson McKinnerney is a fine young gentleman in the senior class at St. Andrew’s Upper School. A favorite author of his is Matthew J. Metzger, but when it comes to his own writing, Grayson is motivated by the importance of representation and its centrality to the comfort of readers. Grayson places importance in the small things. He enjoys misty, drizzly weather. And Grayson, like all great thinkers, wonders if God stays in heaven because he, too, lives in fear of what he’s created here on Earth. A beautiful sycamore who enjoys reading Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Cecile McWilliams asks herself what we can learn from each other and why David Hockney won’t return her phone calls. Like the vibrant and warm person she is, she loves sunny days with her dog. Rachel Owens feels a sense of shame when she consumes the ginger she gets with her sushi, because she herself is “ginger” too. She identifies with the humble bonsai tree as, depending on the crowd around her, she can be very outgoing or subdued. She enjoys young adult novels but, in her own writing, she enjoys exploring angst and pain. Rachel loves cat cafes and thunderstorms and the moment when a choir hits a chord just right. When asked why the Easter Bunny carries eggs, she responded, “Bro that ain’t your business…” 75

As an everlasting soul, Cooper Payne would be an oak tree. As a mortal soul, Cooper often questions his purpose in this life, and wonders about the right path to find it. He really does not like the word indubitably or being stuck at home, but he uses his free time to daydream about space. Given the chance to pet his dog’s ears or an oyster, Cooper would roll his eyes at you. Also, who doesn’t enjoy rugs with fun patterns? If she were a tree, Allison Rauch would be an aspen tree. Tall, blond, and thousands of golden ideas dancing on the tips of her fingers, she finds beauty in hands and the intricate artwork of her twin sister, Sam. She believes the Easter Bunny carries eggs because “he was cursed for excess chocolate-eating; he would spontaneously combust so violently that he could not respawn in time for Easter.” Next year, Allison plans to attend Northwestern University and to vault herself directly into Lake Michigan. Sam Rauch, who describes herself as “Tigger, but with more selfcontrol,” is a Saint Andrew’s senior and a skilled artist, possessing extraordinary attention to detail. She believes the word “necessary” should be replaced with a word that doesn’t take four tries to get the right number of S’s and C’s. As a child, she liked to hide between bolts of fake fur in Jo-Ann’s Fabrics. Her biggest annoyance in life is low-pile beige carpeting in otherwise nice houses. Emma Schmidt likes to get at things indirectly, allowing the reader to learn without being told they are learning. If she ever needs to feel something soft, she finds her pillow. If she ever needs something existentially reassuring, she finds a Nicolas Cage movie. If she ever needs both at the same time, she finds her cat...and together they watch a Nicolas Cage movie. If you want her to taste something horrible, hand her a bag of stale golden bears. She loves the rain, and if she were a tree, she’d be a rain-fed Italian Cypress. Savanna Scott is a beautifully effervescent young woman. Her favorite author is Ernest Hemingway, but in her own writing, she’s interested in what captivates a reader. She wants Andy Warhol to 76

paint her portrait and finds maps strangely beautiful. The softest thing she’s ever felt is tree bark, and she enjoys sunny days in the spring. Kenna Smith has a beautiful soul, and she likes things that are beautiful in their own way. One thing she does not find beautiful in its own way is when someone clicks a pen constantly or sneezes too many times in a row or, God forbid, does both simultaneously. One day as Kenna was strolling the streets of Japan she tried a seaweed jelly drink which she does not want to drink ever again. Kenna is creative and driven and her work often manifests the beauty that she strives for. Krystal Valadez is a vivacious, bewitching young woman, identifying most with the sunny, cheerful palm tree. Naturally, she enjoys sunny weather most. A book she recommends is The House of the Scorpion, by Nancy Farmer, but when it comes to her own writing, she’s intrigued by human emotion. If she were a character from Winnie the Pooh, she would be Piglet, and if she could get rid of any word in the English language, it would be phlegm. Too gross and too confusing to spell. Sometimes colorful, sometimes reserved, but all times joyful, Charlie Welland would describe himself as a cherry blossom tree with a dislike for “like” as a conversational filler. Just, like, say what you mean man. He is also a big fan of saying what you mean, preferably during a downpour. And if you’re feeling stircrazy or disappointed during the current global shutdown, consider the following: The environmental benefits to the lack of fossil fuels being consumed are quite profound. According to Marshall Burke from Stanford University, the absence of pollution has "likely has saved the lives of 4,000 kids under 5 and 73,000 adults over 70 in China," not to mention elsewhere in the world. And did you see those dolphins in Venice? Probably fake. But the air is cleaner! Jacob Zivin is a vibrant young man, spreading warmth and folly to all he meets. He has a black belt in mixed martial arts–clearly not 77

someone you wanna mess with. Don’t be fooled, though. Underneath the rock-hard exterior, Jacob has a soft side. When asked who he would want to paint his portrait, he responded “My grandmother.” Awww!

With Love, Invisible Ink Editors Creative Writing 2020

In order to produce notes on all of the Invisible Ink contributors, the Creative Writing class sent out a survey with a variety of questions. Some of the responses we received—e.g. Sam Rauch's flash fiction (see p.11)—revealed an imagination far beyond the initial prompt. Others, when compiled together, formed serendipitous "found poems." We include two here as a final coda.

The Room How many windows there are. The lighting. The people within. The first thing I notice is the aesthetic. The ambiance - lighting, setup, aesthetic, and decor. The ceiling The lighting The lighting The tidiness of it. What the people are doing. Color. Noises—the volume of them, mainly. If there is a dog. The lights. The design style of the furniture. The architecture. The people in it. The people in it and what they are doing and wearing. The energy. How messy it is. The lighting The lighting. A place to sit down. People. 80

Beauty Dark, dreary days. Especially if a storm is blowing in. Different types of pens. The name Scarlett. Maps. The bridges of people's noses. People's hands. The different sounds of turn signals in cars and the way their doors close. Blinking. Fire. Really smooth perfect rocks. Where the muscles of the chest connect with the arm on marble statues. If you zoom in on a spot on the ground where it's grassy and look really closely. When a choir hits a certain chord JUST RIGHT. Traffic lights at night. Animal skulls. Fangs. Wood grain. Color patterns on everyday things like for example rugs. The drowsy speech pattern of someone spilling their thoughts before they fall asleep. Country roads on dark cloudy days. Sad songs. Topo Chico. 81

Jackson Averill Ryan Bendetti Isabella Castro Sawyer Chandler Elana Chhikara Finn Dickens Sean Goodlett Cammie Guttell Marshall Harrell IV

Isabel Horne Jordan Kappler Mackenzie Kruger Sidney Marsh Fabiana Martinez Grayson McKinnerney Cecile McWilliams Cooper Payne Allison Rauch

Sam Rauch Emma Schmidt Savanna Scott Kenna Smith Mr. & Mrs. O Rachel Owens Krystal Valadez Charlie Welland Jacob Zivin